


A Certain Scent

by LeilaKalomi



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (but not really), Aziraphale and Crowley Have Their Picnic (Good Omens), First Time, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, M/M, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Pheromones, Sex Pollen, but not really, more like attraction pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:54:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24547963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeilaKalomi/pseuds/LeilaKalomi
Summary: Aziraphale decides to purchase snake pheromones to signal his attraction to Crowley.Meanwhile, Crowley wonders why Aziraphale is suddenly using snake repellent. He'd thought everything was going well.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 156
Kudos: 672
Collections: The Sticky Stigma





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to the amazing anti_kate for the idea and the beta read!

It started before the apocalypse. Before Crowley even realized anything was wrong. Aziraphale had a certain...scent. But hey; it was at the Dowlings; he worked in the garden. There was no reason to draw conclusions about him smelling like that. It didn’t have to mean anything. When Crowley met him on the bus a few days later, he smelled normal. He was normal again in the bookshop a few days later. So Crowley thought no more about it. It was just garden chemicals.

But then, after the apocalypse didn’t happen, after a few weeks or so of hanging around the bookshop, the giddy glow of thwarting Heaven _and_ Hell started to fade. Crowley started to let his gaze linger a little, working up the nerve to ask again, in no uncertain terms, if Aziraphale thought he was ready for that picnic. But then the smell came back, and he didn’t ask. Because he knew. It wasn’t garden chemicals. Aziraphale wasn’t trying to repel _snakes_. He was trying to repel _Crowley_.

Crowley couldn’t believe it at first. He made himself sit through it even though it physically hurt, even though it almost made him vomit, even though Aziraphale got so close to him he couldn’t fail to smell it, which must have been what the angel wanted. Crowley was good enough for the occasional conversation, good enough to buy him dinner here and there, good enough to save the world with, even, but he had overstayed his welcome. Aziraphale _had_ liked him, and still did maybe. But maybe he didn’t. Or maybe he’d meant it when he said they weren’t friends. They certainly wouldn’t be any more than that. After three days of the terrible smell and Aziraphale looking increasingly sad and frustrated every time Crowley was around, Crowley gave up.

“Guess I’ll head out,” he said. “Maybe…Berlin. Or...or Melbourne? Never been there, you know? Leaving. Leaving right away.”

“Oh, well, safe travels, dear boy.” Aziraphale looked stricken, inexplicably. Looked confused, but he smiled widely, even though his face was wobbling. Was it possible, Crowley wondered, for just a moment, that he didn’t know what he was doing?

But then Aziraphale gave him a coy little look and reached for him like some kind of sick joke, pressing Crowley’s head right on the place at his neck where the scent was strongest. Crowley shoved him away and stared at him in horror before turning and storming out the door. It wasn’t like Aziraphale to be cruel. Crowley had already told him he was leaving. It wasn’t necessary to drive him away, or be so smug about it.

* * *

Aziraphale had read about the benefits of snakes for a garden. He tried to do a good job as Francis, at least in the early days, and well, there was a grasshopper problem. And rodents. Snakes were supposed to be good for both. He was researching that when he first stumbled across the idea of snake pheromones. There were specific ones you could use to attract snakes. _Oh, how interesting_ , he’d thought. But he’d very quickly realized that he had no talent for gardening, and had given up entirely on trying to do it the human way, including doing anything at all to attract snakes to the garden. He simply miracled away the rodents and grasshoppers, miracled the flowers into beautiful blooms. It was much easier.

He was far too distracted anyway, to do anything about his dearth of gardening skills, had he desired to do so (he did not). Crowley as Nanny Ashtoreth was a striking figure, prancing around the garden with her charge in tow. In the evenings and in their free time in London, Crowley was constantly showing up, calling, or requesting meetings to check in.

It was too much to deal with. There was, after all, a reason Aziraphale had tried to keep his distance since 1941. He was absolutely earth-shatteringly in love with Crowley. A demon. It wouldn’t do, he knew. Not only because he _couldn’t_. But also because Crowley _wouldn’t_. _Didn’t_. Although...lately Aziraphale was becoming unsure about that. If Crowley cared for him too, then it would present the greatest temptation of his existence. With the world uncertain, could he perhaps be forgiven for falling to it?

So eventually he ordered it—a powder containing a specific snake pheromone, which could be mixed with his regular cologne and applied. Nothing unethical. Nothing to trigger some sort of instinctual sex response. That would be absolutely appalling, not to mention unlikely to be effective on a being with no sex instincts. No, this was something special. A little snake pheromone that said only, _I’m yours, I’m here for the taking if you’re interested (and I do, really, hope you are)_ , because Aziraphale was too afraid to say it himself. The choice was still Crowley’s. He tried it one day when he didn’t need to be outdoors for any appearance of gardening (so as to avoid becoming a snake beacon) and thought he got a curious look from Crowley over the Dowling staff dinner.

After the apocalypse, he tweaked it slightly, adding a bit of _occult_ with the reluctant help of that nice young American woman from the airbase. Just to make sure he was clear.

“Are you sure about this,” she asked him. “I mean, I’m pretty sure he likes you already. Can’t you just talk to him?”

Aziraphale ignored her. _Talking_ was all well and good when you had a book of prophecy to confirm that the one you loved was meant for you. What did she know about true uncertainty? His mistakes could have consequences that could last forever. What did she know about eternity? About walking headfirst into it, bumbling like a fool? This way, it would simply be obvious without anyone having to talk. He waited to try it. Waited until he was all but sure Crowley might really care for him the same way, until it didn’t seem like such a risk to put himself out there, though he still couldn’t say the words.

At first, Crowley didn’t seem to notice. Then after a day or so, he grew stiff, as if perhaps he were confused. He kept his distance from Aziraphale when they were together.

When, after a few days, Aziraphale saw that it—that _he_ had made Crowley uncomfortable, he’d had a good long soak, and scrubbed it away, trying hard not to feel sorry for himself, not to sob and wallow and linger until the water had gone cold. He really ought to have _miracled_ it away instead, though, because it wasn’t enough. The next day, after just a half hour in the backroom (where Crowley had squeezed himself into the corner of the sofa, far away from him, and nursed, rather than drank, a glass of whisky) Crowley told him he was leaving the country and practically tossed him away when he tried to hug him goodbye. True, they hadn’t _hugged_ much before, but Aziraphale hadn’t meant to force it, hadn’t meant to make Crowley uncomfortable all over again. The stuff must have lingered. Maybe that was why he was sat so far away, why he let his arms come up around Aziraphale, give him one quick, tight squeeze, and then cast him off as if he couldn’t bear it any longer. Aziraphale froze in shock, arms still outstretched, watching as Crowley, looking disgusted and completely horrified, slammed the door behind him and prowled out of view. His face twitched.

He would _not_ lock the shop and go upstairs, read _Wuthering Heights_ in a nest of blankets, and weep into his cocoa.

He would make himself a cup of tea. Or perhaps cocoa would be more comforting. And he’d sit, and, well, perhaps read _something_. Blankets _would_ be nice. And to be honest, there probably would be weeping, but he certainly wouldn’t indulge himself. It made no difference, Aziraphale told himself. Crowley would be back. It would be all right. He only needed a bit of time to adjust. It was a big thing to learn, after all, that your best friend was in love with you. Especially if you didn’t love him back.


	2. Chapter 2

Crowley did not go to Berlin. The truth was, he had no plan. If you’d asked him a week ago, what he’d planned for his future, the only thing he’d been sure of would have been Aziraphale’s presence in it. Aziraphale, had, after all, been the only constant his whole life. But now he’d made it clear that he wanted Crowley gone.

Where could Crowley go? How far gone did Aziraphale want him? He’d go. Any distance, if he just never had to feel like that again. It was just that it was _Aziraphale_. The idea of never seeing him again was the worst thing Crowley could think of. Worse than a bathtub full of holy water. It was a good thing, he reflected, that the thermos was well and empty now. Dry, even, from where he’d left it open. When he arrived at his flat, he went straight to it, running his hands over it. He slid to the floor, back against his desk, eyes closed, chest heaving. _Aziraphale. Aziraphale._

 _Maybe one day we could have a picnic_ , he’d said. _Dine at the Ritz_. He’d spoken so carefully and deliberately even though his voice had been barely above a whisper, like he was afraid someone was listening. He was always afraid then. Lately, he hadn’t been. He’d been so light and happy, and sometimes their eyes would lock and Crowley would feel like he was flying. _This, this_ , his mind would tell him, and he wanted to reach out and touch, as if that would tell him if Aziraphale was flying too.

Now, though, it was over. Crowley had no idea what he’d done, why it had ended before it had begun. The simplest explanation was that there wasn’t _anything_ to have ended in the first place. He’d imagined the whole thing, like some cheap radio drama. He’d always been good at that. _We’re not friends_ , Aziraphale had said. _We’ve nothing at all in common. I don’t even like you._ Crowley had denied it without thinking; he hadn’t believed it for a second. But maybe it was true.

Crowley stared down at the thermos. He ought to hurl it away from him. Instead, he pressed his lips to it. It was cool and smooth.

 _You go too fast for me, Crowley_ , Aziraphale had said. God, the whole exchange had been like a promise. Crowley hadn’t acknowledged how much hope he’d allowed to grow, how much it had sustained him.

He stood up, let the thermos fall to the floor. That night, there was an unexpected flight out of London into Alexandria. Passengers include a few opportunistic businessmen and tourists, and one Anthony J. Crowley.

* * *

Aziraphale had never been one to wallow, but this whole experience had pushed him to the brink of his ability to maintain anything resembling even the most neurotic cheer. After nearly two weeks of complete silence from Crowley, he couldn’t stand it any longer. He picked up his phone. Maybe it was creepy, he thought, to call Crowley when he’d made it so clear he didn’t want to be around Aziraphale after what he’d done. But perhaps Crowley simply didn’t understand that Aziraphale didn’t intend to press him. He would simply apologize, make it clear that he had no intentions of raising the issue again, and accept whatever Crowley decided.

His phone felt awkward in his hand; had it always been this heavy, this slick to the touch?

He dialed. It rang. Too loud, he thought. Was it always this loud? And what if it went to his voicemail? What would he do then?

But Crowley picked up.

“What?” he sounded short, annoyed. Aziraphale didn’t blame him. He hesitated, sighed.

“Crowley, could I...could I speak with you a moment?”

“Already doing, aren’t you?”

“Oh, you know what I...I’m sorry. If it’s not a good time I’ll simply go. Perhaps try again later?”

Crowley groaned loudly. _Perhaps not, then_ , Aziraphale thought. _Perhaps it was just too soon._

“Angel, please just, if you have something to say, for some _inexplicable_ reason, just go ahead and say it. I’m here, I’m listening.”

“Crowley, I’m sorry. I’m so very sorry. I never meant to...to pressure you, or make things so unpleasant. When you’re back in London, do you think we might still see each other? Sometimes? I won’t do that again. It was presumptuous. Rude. So terribly selfish, and cowardly. I wouldn’t do it again, I promise you—”

“So what, you want to check in every century or so like we used to? Fine.” Crowley’s voice was tight, restrained.

“If that’s all you’d be comfortable with, I understand.”

There was a silence. Aziraphale twisted his fingers in the telephone cord. Then Crowley said, much softer, “I’ll see you whenever you want, angel. You know that.”

“I thought perhaps I’d ruined it.”

“You can’t _ruin_ it, Aziraphale,” Crowley said; he sounded very serious, almost sad.

“Where are you? If you don’t mind my asking.”

“Egypt.”

“Oh, yes—”

“Going to Paris next. Ehh...if you, ah, feel like it, maybe we could have some lunch? Pop across the channel for some crepes. If you’re peckish.”

“Oh, you.” Aziraphale couldn’t suppress a laugh. But was Crowley serious? He couldn’t tell. Any other time he’d have thought so, but now it seemed almost too easy. “I’d, um, like that,” he said. “If you’ll tell me when you’ll be there. I could...could meet you.” Oh, God, he sounded desperate. Lovesick. Crowley would be disgusted all over again.

“That’d be nice, yeah,” Crowley said. “I think I’ll be there, ah, let’s say Friday.”

“Friday! But my dear boy, that’s tomorrow!”

“Yeah. That all right?”

“Oh!” Aziraphale made himself take a few breaths. “Yes, I think. Yes, that will be just fine.”


	3. Chapter 3

Crowley wasn’t sure what had made him do this, suggest this place, of all places. Aziraphale hadn’t been to Paris for some time, he knew. It was easy to tease him about the crepes, about the last time they’d been here together. Maybe that was all it was. Someplace it would be easy to tease him. He met Aziraphale at the airport, drove him through the city to the Parisian Ritz. Aziraphale looked a little surprised when Crowley breezed them past the check-in desk.

“What? You didn’t think I’d have got you a room?” Crowley asked.

“It’s just, well, it’s very _thoughtful_. Thank you, my dear,” Aziraphale said, smiling fondly. Then, suddenly, his face crumpled slightly, and he looked away. “I’m sorry,” he said.

Crowley frowned. “Hey, it’s OK. Didn’t I tell you? It’s over. It’s done. Just, you know, I guess we all need some space sometimes, right? You don’t think I asked you to come to Paris and got you a room next to mine just so I can harp on about it?”

This didn’t seem to make Aziraphale feel better. Aziraphale’s shoulders drew in and he tucked his head down as he shook it _no_. Crowley darted out in front of him to press the button on the lift, then snapped his fingers to make it arrive when he got tired of waiting.

After scaring off the lift’s passengers, none of whom had intended to disembark at the lobby (and indeed looked quite confused as to how they had got there), Crowley grabbed Aziraphale’s hand and tugged him onto the lift.

“Come on, angel, or we’ll miss it,” he said. _Had he been wrong to ask him here? Wrong to go ahead and get the room?_ What if Aziraphale hadn’t been planning to stay, but to just have a quick meal and get back to London? But he’d brought a bloody suitcase. That wasn’t it.

Aziraphale smiled apologetically and followed Crowley onto the lift. “Shall we eat downstairs?” he asked, chin jutting out bravely.

“Can if you like, but I thought we’d go out,” Crowley said. “ ’S Paris, isn’t it? Ought to get you something special.”

Aziraphale’s smile would have lit up a room as big as twenty of the lifts.

* * *

Paris was perfect. Everything was. Aziraphale wasn’t sure how long it had been, now. They hadn’t been asked to check out of their rooms, so they simply hadn’t. He had no desire to go back to London and he watched Crowley carefully for signs that he had tired of Aziraphale again, but there were none. Every day, Aziraphale read in his room after their dinner had turned to late conversation over wine. He read until breakfast, usually, then popped down for a light meal and more reading in the lobby until Crowley surfaced. They wandered the city and its museums and gardens and restaurants talking and laughing and teasing until things started to close and it was time to make their way back to their rooms to get ready to do it all over again the next day.

But it was too perfect. It was so perfect that Aziraphale was beginning to feel nervous. He’d promised Crowley he wouldn’t try again. But was he really supposed to ignore it when they were in the Metro and Crowley rested a hand on his shoulder and stood so close behind him he could feel his breath in his hair? Or when Crowley bought them a tacky umbrella from a street vendor in Montmartre just because it had angel wings on it and it had started to rain? He’d held the umbrella over them both, not even moving his hand away when Aziraphale tried to take it and inadvertently wrapped their hands together. Instead, Crowley had wrapped his _other_ hand around Aziraphale’s and looked at him. Significantly, it seemed. Aziraphale had blinked and looked away, though he couldn’t stop his smile.

And tonight, they seemed to have deviated from their routine slightly, because Crowley had followed Aziraphale into his hotel room, and now Aziraphale was sitting in an armchair and Crowley was lying on Aziraphale’s bed, wine glass in hand, discussing whether or not it was worth it to visit the Pompidou Centre, given Aziraphale’s distaste for _installations_.

“I’d say,” Crowley was saying, “that it’s well worth it, you know, because there’s so much else in there that you like.”

_Like what?_ Aziraphale wanted to ask him. He didn’t fancy that Aziraphale cared anything for _Picasso_ , did he? “And what about you?” Aziraphale said instead.

Crowley frowned. “What do you mean?”

“What’s there for you? What do _you_ like?”

Crowley’s lips stretched in a particularly mischievous smile. One that Aziraphale might have called unsavory except for how much he _savored_ it. Crowley looked like he was thinking about something absolutely unseemly, and it shouldn’t make Aziraphale’s toes curl inside of his brogues, shouldn’t make his heart speed up and his hands clench, as he tried to swallow and failed, but, oh, it did.

“Tell me,” he managed to say, his mouth dry.

Crowley laughed and shook his head. “You wouldn’t like it.”

“I might. I’d certainly like for you to tell me. I mean, I’ve asked.”

“You did, that. Yeah.” Crowley closed his eyes and sighed. Then he reached out his hand from the bed, toward Aziraphale. Aziraphale stared at the hand, the fine bones, the light dusting of reddish hair along its side. The hand flailed slightly, insistently. So Aziraphale took it. Crowley let out a long hiss and his eyes stayed closed as if he were in pain, but he held on.

“This is what I like,” he said, his voice very quiet.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale ran his thumb over soft, fine hair, uncertain, but wanting to comfort, if he could.

Crowley opened his eyes and locked them on Aziraphale’s.

“ ’s what I _want_ , angel,” he said, and his eyes flickered down to where their hands were joined together, then back up to Aziraphale’s face. “You.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm somewhat blown away by the response to this fic, but I'm very happy people are enjoying it! I'll respond to all comments when I post the last chapter :)

Aziraphale hesitated. Crowley made himself keep his eyes on Aziraphale’s face. He could look away; he _wanted_ to look away, in case he wouldn’t like what he’d see there, but it was too much to _assume_ he wouldn’t, easier to just hope and deal with the aftermath if he had to. Aziraphale hadn’t let go of his hand. Instead, he lifted it up, his eyes still on Crowley’s, and pressed it to his lips.

“Darling,” he whispered. Something in Crowley’s chest broke open and he cried out, his body all wobbly as he tried to sit up, but then Aziraphale was there, sitting beside him on the bed, putting the wine glass on the bedside table and leaning in and Crowley was kissing him, and Crowley was crying, or trying not to, so Aziraphale wouldn’t see, wouldn’t feel it.

He pulled Aziraphale down on top of him. “OK?” he asked.

“Darling,” Aziraphale repeated, before bending his head to apply his tongue to the jut of Crowley’s jaw, the soft, delicate skin of his throat.

“Aziraphale? Are we—? Do you want—?”

“If you do.”

“Yes,” Crowley said. “Oh, God, yes. Fuck, I didn’t think you would…” Aziraphale was unbuttoning Crowley’s shirt now, so Crowley returned the favor with a snap of his fingers. “Didn’t think you...would ever…” Aziraphale’s lips closed around one of Crowley’s nipples, and he sucked lightly, his tongue playing at the tip.

Crowley didn’t say anything else for a long time.

After, Crowley lay on his side, staring at Aziraphale’s abandoned armchair. His heart swooped, lifting and plummeting. He’d wanted that for so long. Did it mean what he thought? It would be so easy to just roll over and ask him. To say, _I love you; please tell me it’s the same for you. Please tell me that’s what that meant._ But people didn’t just _say_ things like that, did they? Not after they’d just done _that_...not when the other person had chased them off not a month before. And what had changed really, since then? It was obvious it didn’t mean what he wanted it to.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale said. “Was it all right? Are _you_ all right?”

Crowley felt a hot surge of frantic, protective love flood his whole body. He turned his body over and looked at Aziraphale’s face, the brave expression; the fear and the _trying_. That was supposed to be over now. Aziraphale was safe. He didn’t have to look like that. Especially not for Crowley. Aziraphale had said he was sorry: that was what had changed since a month ago. And maybe it really would be OK. Crowley didn’t want to make him regret coming to Paris, regret giving him a second chance. He pulled Aziraphale into his arms and kissed his forehead.

“You’re my best friend,” he said; he meant it to reassure him, but then he said it again and again, and he was sobbing. How was he supposed to forget this, how warm and soft Aziraphale was? The way his body was strong and pliant against Crowley’s? The slide and taste of his lips and tongue? And now he was crying and scaring him off and he would never experience those things again. He tried to stop himself, but he just kept gasping out the same words and sobbing and holding on.

Aziraphale stroked his hair gently and said, “You’re mine too, dearest. The very best. Everything is still lovely. It doesn’t have to change.”

Crowley’s breath caught and he stilled. “What if I want it to?” he mumbled into the soft skin of Aziraphale’s shoulder. Aziraphale didn’t seem to hear him, though, and maybe it was for the best. He let Aziraphale soothe him, his gentle hands holding him, sliding through his hair as if each touch was something that mattered to the angel, his friend, his best friend. Crowley knew he would never be able to forget this, would never stop wanting Aziraphale to love him the way he loved Aziraphale. But it was all right because Aziraphale was still here. Aziraphale cared, even if Crowley wasn’t sure what it meant.

* * *

Aziraphale generally preferred to spend his nights with a book, but that night was different, for so many reasons. Crowley in his room, saying those things, and then they’d done _that_. Aziraphale had never done _that_ before. He’d never even really considered it. But if he _had_ imagined it, it would have been different in one regard: Crowley would have loved him back.

 _You don’t know that he doesn’t_ , he thought. _He might have changed his mind._

But he’d sworn he wouldn’t make Crowley uncomfortable again, that he wouldn’t bring up his feelings. Sex didn’t mean love. Aziraphale doubted he would have been capable of it without love, but it was probably different for Crowley. If it _wasn’t_ different for him, if Crowley loved him too, then why had Crowley cried? Why had he thought he needed to mourn their friendship?

At any rate, it was odd for Aziraphale, waking up naked with his arms around an equally naked Crowley. What _had_ they done? Ought _he_ to mourn their friendship? Was it over now? Just because of something like that? Something so _human_? He shouldn’t have been so weak. But he could be stronger now, for Crowley. He would show him that he didn’t need to worry.

It was still dark. Aziraphale ignored the dull stabbing sensation in his chest and got up. Crowley wouldn’t appreciate waking up like this, with Aziraphale draped all over him. He didn’t want him that way. It was just sex. Only sex. Aziraphale shouldn’t have allowed it to happen. It was nobody’s business but his own if he wanted more than that. He wouldn’t let Crowley see it or suffer for it. Crowley didn’t deserve to lose his best friend.

Aziraphale went to the closet. He took out the complimentary bathrobe he’d not used before tonight and wrapped himself in it, then sat down at his desk with the book he’d started that morning.

Crowley awoke earlier than Aziraphale had expected. He rolled over, almost frantic, before he spotted Aziraphale sitting at the desk and went very still.

“Good morning,” Aziraphale said, cautiously. “Should I...call for some breakfast?”

Crowley took a long, shuddering breath. “Angel,” he began, somberly. His voice shook.

Aziraphale felt his own face crumple, his lips twisting. _No, no, please don’t_ , he thought. _Surely we can fix this._

“Angel, I love you,” Crowley said sadly. “I’ve loved you such a long time.”

The fall Aziraphale had expected to come _didn’t_. It was like being pushed from a tall building, only to find, quite unexpectedly, that you could fly. And he did rather feel like he was flying. He opened his mouth and tried to speak, but all he could say was, “Oh.” Crowley twitched nervously, sitting all the way up and clutching at the bedcovers as they spilled down around his naked waist, and Aziraphale realized he had to do better. Crowley was perfect and beautiful, but right now he looked ill, and he wouldn’t meet Aziraphale’s eyes. How was it he didn’t seem to understand? Didn’t he _know_?

“Oh, Crowley,” he said. Crowley still didn’t move, so Aziraphale stood up and sat on the bed beside him. He lifted one of his hands in both of his and brought it up to his lips as he’d done the night before. “I...I love you too, my dear boy. Of course I do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're enjoying this fic, you might also like my [Good Omens adaptation of I Love You Phillip Morris](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23638270/chapters/56734453), a romantic comedy. You do not have to have seen that movie for it to make sense.


	5. Chapter 5

They went back to London eventually. It was hard to say how long they had been in Paris. It didn’t really matter anymore. They had each other; they were together, and they were happy. They loved each other. They had marveled over it for a day or so, then gone back to something like normal, only with more touching and kissing and compliments. And sex. They both quite liked that, now they’d tried it, and once they were in bed Aziraphale was always shyly suggesting they try some new (to them) technique he’d read about, so it definitely wasn’t boring.

It had been almost a year, a year of absolutely perfect bliss, when it happened again. Crowley dropped by the bookshop, ready to suggest they take another trip (maybe Japan this time. Aziraphale liked Japan).

Aziraphale was nowhere to be seen, though, even though the shop was open. A small clatter told Crowley that he was in the flat upstairs, which was a little unusual, though lately he’d been experimenting with updating his wardrobe, so probably he was changing his clothes or “spiffing up a little” as he called it.

“Bollocks,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley grinned at the swear. “Angel? Everything all right?”

A silence. “Oh, fine! Didn’t know you were here, my dear. Wait for me in the back room, please.”

Crowley shrugged and started for the back room. But then he smelled it again. The smell of rejection, loneliness, despair. The wave of nausea hit him even stronger because he’d thought he’d never have to smell it again, never have to _feel_ that way again. Aziraphale had promised. He grimaced, spun on his heel and pulled open the door to go.

“Crowley?”

He turned around. Aziraphale was standing on the stairs, in a brand new ascot, looking at him like everything was fine. He smiled and stepped lightly down the last few stairs.

“I thought I asked you to wait,” he said. “Why are you leaving?”

“It’s obvious you don’t want me here,” Crowley said.

“Crowley, we had plans. We were going to lunch. Of course I want you—”

“Right. I just don’t understand why you couldn’t just _talk_ to me. If, if something’s not working, or you need space or whatever. What is it, Aziraphale?”

“What is _what_? I don’t understand, Crowley. I was so excited to see you. It’s been a year, did you know that? I thought we’d discuss how to celebrate?” Aziraphale wrung his hands, his head shaking. “What is it I’ve done?”

“Oh, gee, what could it be? Maybe the _snake repellent_ , Aziraphale? The...the _demon snake repellent_? You got other _snake demons_ you’re trying to get rid of? I suppose it was them all along, yeah? No reason for _me_ to get my knickers in a knot.”

“ _Repellent_ ,” Aziraphale said, as if it were a new word. Then he gasped. “Oh, Crowley, no.” He snapped his fingers and the smell was gone.

It took Crowley a few breaths of musty bookshop air before he was able to relax a little.

“What the _Heaven_ was that?”

“I broke a bottle upstairs. An old bottle I _never_ meant to open again. Crowley, dearest, let’s go and sit down. I think I need to explain some things.”

* * *

Aziraphale could have just miracled himself into his new clothing, but he liked doing things the human way sometimes, and clothing was such a sensory experience, meant to be pulled on, dragged over skin, adjusted with fingers to lie just so. Aziraphale laid out his new ascot and daubed on his cologne, giving it plenty of time to dry so he wouldn’t soil the ascot. He looped it around his neck, gave it a double, hidden knot, then wrapped it, sighing happily. _Perfect._ He grabbed the cologne off his bookshelf and went to put it away, but it knocked into the other bottles in his cupboard so they rattled, two of them clattering onto the floor. One of them cracked open.

“Bollocks,” Aziraphale said. He leaned over to pick it up, then stopped. It was _that_ bottle. He laughed to himself a little, thinking of a time when he’d been so afraid of rejection that he’d stooped to attempting to use _pheromones_...oh, well, it had worked out in the end.

“Angel, everything all right?”

Oh, Crowley was here. Aziraphale would have to hurry, though he didn’t like to use miracles for things like this. There was no need, really, he thought, not now. Crowley already knew Aziraphale loved him, after all. It might be pleasant for him to be reminded of it in yet another way. And anyway, they were going out. He started down the stairs and saw Crowley, stalking toward the door. His jacket was black paisley. _Vintage_ , Aziraphale thought, admiringly, as he called out to him. But then he turned around and Aziraphale saw his face.

* * *

Aziraphale led him to the back room. His face was hot and he was sweating and shaking unaccountably. He didn’t want to own up to his past cowardice and idiocy, not with Crowley looking so on edge, so closed off, angry, and hurt. _Snake repellent._ Demon _snake repellent._ It should have been such a good day, an anniversary of sorts. If lovemaking with your best friend who only (several hours) later officially became your lover was the sort of thing one commemorated with anniversary celebrations.

He didn’t know where to begin. How to explain. He waved Crowley onto the sofa, and sat next to him, taking his hand. He looked at his desk rather than at Crowley and began to speak.

“I thought it was a different pheromone, you see. I thought…” Aziraphale paused, sighed.

“What, like sex pollen or something?” Crowley smirked, but there was a doubtful, hurt look behind the bravado.

“No! No, Crowley, I would never!”

“Bloody hell, of course you wouldn’t,” Crowley said. Aziraphale relaxed slightly. Crowley hadn’t let go of his hand.

“I wanted you to know how I felt. But I couldn’t tell you. I was too afraid. So, I researched it, or, well, I thought I did. There are certain...chemicals that snakes can detect that...that make them feel welcomed, safe. That can signal...availability. I would never have taken the choice away from you. I only wanted you to know I was there. If you were at all interested.”

Crowley laughed. He lifted Aziraphale’s hand up between them and kissed it.

“It’s funny, you know,” Crowley said. “That day. I was going to ask you to have that picnic. Had the spot all picked out and everything. I was starting to think you wanted me, too. No pheromones needed. And then I came by and you smelled like _that_. Figured it wasn’t on. All in my head.”

“Oh, not at all, my dearest. And that’s why you left?”

“Yup.”

“I thought you knew what I felt and hated me for it. That I’d ruined everything by being so...so brazen. When really I was just a coward.”

“You’re not a coward, angel. You were trying to put yourself out there the only way you could.”

Aziraphale smiled. “Thank you for understanding. I promise I’m all out of pheromones now.”

Crowley stood up, tugging Aziraphale gently to his feet.

“Since when is brazen a problem for me?” Crowley said, as Aziraphale locked the door behind them. “I think we both could have been _more_ brazen. Spared ourselves a lot of ridiculousness.”

Aziraphale turned to find Crowley blocking his path, hemming him in and pushing him up against the door. He sighed and resigned himself to being kissed. He stroked his fingers over the silk brocade of the jacket. He _remembered_ this one. 1967, a thermos in the dark. A promise of a picnic, if they made it this far. Crowley ended the kiss, but didn’t move away. Aziraphale touched the jacket again and sighed.

“Let’s pick up something and have the picnic, then,” he said. Feeling suddenly bold, he added, “Afterwards, I think we should make love. And you should use a miracle for privacy, because I want us to do it _outdoors_.”

“There you go,” Crowley said. “See, angel, I knew you could do it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! This has been so much fun to share! I really appreciate the interest and hope you enjoyed the ending.

**Author's Note:**

> come say hi and follow me on tumblr [@leilakalomi](https://leilakalomi.tumblr.com).


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